


Son of Snow

by RunRabbitRun



Series: Fae!Joxter Series [1]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fae & Fairies, Fantastic Racism, First Meetings, Gen, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Nature Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 16:31:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18832411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunRabbitRun/pseuds/RunRabbitRun
Summary: Joxaren, a son of Winter, wanders along the beach and meets a strange young boy.





	Son of Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's hoppin on the Moomin Renaissance Bandwagon BABEEEY??!?! It's me. 
> 
> A few things before we begin:
> 
> 1) I'm only familiar with the animated Moomins, please don't crucify me.  
> 2) I'm playing fast and loose with canon and naming conventions. A lot of fairy lore has rules surrounding names and the power of giving your true name to someone, so it made sense to mess around with Joxter's original and translated names to go with the theme.  
> 3) I wrote this very quickly and did my best to edit it, but if you notice any glaring errors please feel free to point them out.  
> 4) Thank you for reading! I'm new to Moomins and I'm having a blast.
> 
> Edit as of 5/15/19: I originally used the term 'half-breed' in this fic to signify that Joxaren is a thoughtless asshole re: half-Fae children, but I changed the wording after I was told the term had some nasty real-world associations. I also added the 'Fantastic Racism' tag, which I really should have done when I first posted the fic. For clarification: in the context of this story, 'Mumrik' and 'halfling' are general terms for any half-Fae. It can have some bad implications behind it, depending on who's using it and in what context, but Snufkin doesn't know that. Joxaren IS kind of a dick, but he gets better. Maybe. Depending on if a sequel to this goes anywhere.

When Joxaren fell in with the Mother Mymble he had no intention of getting a kit on her. There were beings like himself who seemed to delight in spreading their wild oats near and far, producing Mumrik whelps with every manner of troll, faerie, and elf. He wasn’t above a tryst, far from it, but _children_? Such a thing held no interest for him. He was a son of Winter, a wild thing meant to herald the Death of the Year, to wander across the land bringing the ice and snow in his footsteps.

He hadn’t been sure he was _capable_ of siring children, to be completely honest. He himself had been born from a snowbank hidden away in a shadowed crevasse, the kind that melted and refroze and melted and refroze into a solid block of ice that never seemed to fully vanish, even in Summer.

But it had been _Midwinter_ when he and Mother Mymble had come together, a time when his powers were at their strongest. He supposed it made sense that their coupling would result in a child, something he’d been too drunk on the potency of a Winter’s Full Moon (and mead, and Mother Mymble’s considerable charms) to fully think his actions through.

And so when he and Mymble had had their fill of each other, and his feet got the old familiar itch, he’d moved on. There’d been new places to see, the eternal cycle of the year to observe, and his own nature to obey. Mother Mymble had bade him a fond farewell and went on her own way, never giving a single hint that Joxaren had left her with a little gift. Perhaps she had not known at the time, or perhaps she did and simply didn’t care to share the news with him.

He had to learn about his own offspring quite by accident.

He first caught sight of the boy in a fishing village on the southern coast. He’d come ahead of an encroaching ice storm, and he had vague plans of drawing obscene figures in frost on the villagers’ windows before heading off into the nearby sea cliffs to enjoy the storm in one of the many caves that could be found there. At low tide the violet thunderhead of the storm was still some hours off, so he wandered down to the beach to look for sea urchins.

He’d just cracked open his first urchin when he caught a whiff of something strange on the wind. The salt air was so potent the scent was nearly overpowered but, _there!_ If he lifted his nose and took a deep sniff he could just catch the perfume of Spring flowers and snowmelt. A vernal Fae, here? Most of that kind went inland, going deep into the mountains to sleep through the colder months. He scanned the beach, squinting through the spray until he saw a person in the distance, dressed in green, picking its way down the rocks. Very intriguing.

Joxaren traipsed along the beach, making his roundabout way over to the strange person as he munched on urchin innards and the occasional hermit crab. By the time he came upon them, he found they were searching the tidepools just as he was and had collected a dozen or so small clams.

“Hullo there, what brings you down out of the mountains this late in the year?”

The creature looked up and Joxaren was greeted with the sight of his own face staring back at him.

“The weather, of course,” the boy with Joxaren’s face replied. “I always travel South when it gets cold.”

Joxaren shoved another piece of urchin in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, searching the boy’s face. Yes, very similar to his own, but not as identical as he first thought. The coloring was all wrong, the cheeks fuller, the eyes rounder. Strange, how it seemed at first he was looking at his own reflection.

He realized then that the boy was giving him an odd look and he gathered himself.

“Don’t your kind usually take your sleep in the northern caves? I’ve never known vernal Fae to migrate.”

The boy tilted his head and the odd look intensified. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. I’ve never known other Mumriks to hibernate, though I can’t say I’ve known enough to say for sure.”

 _Mumrik_. Ah, that would explain it. The boy was only a _half-Fae_. Joxaren slurped down another bit of urchin, smiling crookedly at the boy’s disgusted expression.

“Have you come down with your family, then? I myself am a traveler, perhaps I’ve met your kin on the road.”

It was the boy’s turn to smirk. “Unlikely, I travel alone.”

“You’re quite young to be wandering by yourself, boy,” Joxaren exclaimed. He was no family man but even he knew it was strange for a little kit such as this one to be alone. The boy scowled and looked away, back down at the tide pool. The wide brim of his green hat hid his face, though it did give Joxaren a good view of the dried wild roses and bluebird feathers tucked into a slot cut in the crown. He wondered if the boy had put them there himself or if they were a token from someone.

“I’m quite capable of looking after myself, always have been,” he said primly, though with an edge that Joxaren longed to test.

“Ah,” he plopped down and crossed his legs, ignoring the sharp look the boy sent him. “You’re an orphan! How unfortunate. Or perhaps your mother simply could not be bothered?”

He boy gathered his clams and stood abruptly. “I must take shelter before the storm hits. Good day to you, sir.” And with that he turned on a booted heel and marched away, back towards the sea cliffs.

 Joxaren sent a cruel smile at the boy’s retreating back. So _sensitive_ , just like a young kit. His own youth had been spent running wild with other hibernal Fae, and they were not a soft race. He’d never been so prickly, he was certain of it.

He spent the rest of the afternoon gorging himself on mollusks, even snaring an unlucky gull to round out his meal. By then the tide was almost fully risen and the storm was upon him. The wind howled and he howled back in greeting, tasting the ice in the air and feeling his power swell in response.

As the waves began to grow and crash, he clambered up the cliffs and found a small cave, perfect for enjoying the squall. As he watched the sea churn and thrash, frost leaked out around his fingers and the temperature in the cave plummeted until the whole cavern was decorated in a glittering layer of ice. Just for fun he made icicles and flung them out into the surf like javelins. This was what he lived for, nature’s fury resonating deep in his bones and satisfying his love of chaos and all wild things.

The storm raged all night before it passed on, leaving the world covered in a layer of rime as far as the eye could see. Joxaren crowed his delight at the sight of it, feeling his power pulse under his skin like the sea itself. He climbed down from his cave and then up to the top of the cliff, using his sharp claws to scale the icy stone. What a view! A frozen world and a bottomless black sea. Off in the distance the fishing village looked like a frosted cake, the residents’ morning cookfires sending plumes of smoke like spun sugar into a pearl-gray sky.

There was another, smaller trail of smoke he noticed, flowing weakly out of the mouth of one of the sea caves. Another traveler? Perhaps even the young wanderer he’d met the other day?

Who could say? Joxaren pulled his pipe out from his pocket, intended to have a nice solitary smoke before heading into the village to see what trouble he could stir up when his stomach gave a rumble. Right then, breakfast first. The tide wouldn’t go out for hours and all the creatures of the wild were probably still in their dens, so hunting would be poor. The village probably had food, but Joxaren carried no money and had no taste for the kind of thing served in villages.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the little campfire’s smoke trail sputter in the wind. Well, he’d pester whoever that was, maybe trade a few things, and then be on his way.

He climbed headfirst down the cliffs, sniffing the air as he went. There was that strange smell again. It had to be the boy, he thought. Who else would carry such a fresh, flowery scent but a Fae halfing? Well, he thought, if nothing else the little mutt was fun to rile up. With a clever maneuver, he turned himself right-side-up and dropped into the mouth of the cave, paws on his hips, ready with a quip about how the boy’s father should have taught him to build a stronger campfire in such icy weather, but the sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks.

The campfire was weak and small, just barely burning, and before it crouched the green-clad figure of the boy, soaked to the bone and shivering violently.

Joxaren was hibernal, a son of snow; the ice and cold gave him his power, but he was not ignorant of what it could do to lesser creatures.

“Hello there, young Mumrik,” he called. “Not the best morning for sea bathing. Did you fall in?”

No answer. Joxaren frowned and approached, walking around the fire to look the boy in the face.

“I _said_ , did you fall in?”

The boy stared at him, trying to say something through his shivering, but only half-swallowed sounds spilled out. His lips were blue and his skin had gone nearly white. Oh dear, that wasn’t good. Joxaren knelt and took the boy’s face in his paws, turning it this way and that. The boy barely seemed aware of him, his dark eyes unfocused and his teeth chattering too hard to produce speech. Perhaps if the boy had been older, or if he hadn’t been a half-Fae, Joxaren would have left him to his fate.  But the sight of the little creature freezing in front of a measly fire made his cold heart give an uncharacteristic throb.

Right, first the fire needed building. The boy wasn’t a complete idiot, it seemed, as there was a pile of driftwood stored further back in the cave. That could’ve worked, but it was damp. With a grumble Joxaren took a few pieces into his arms and held them tight to him. His power flowed out, drawing the moisture out of the wood, freezing it first to ice, and then to a thin mist that crawled up his arms and sunk right into his skin. He repeated the process with a few more good-sized pieces and then returned to the boy’s side. He used his newly dried driftwood to build up the fire until it was pleasantly snapping and crackling, all the while keeping an eye on his charge.

The boy shuddered, so cold and delirious he didn’t resist when Joxaren pulled off his sodden clothing. He then dug around in his pack for the spare jacket and ragged quilt he carried. He ransacked the boy’s pack as well and found another woolen blanket. He wrapped the boy securely and scooted him as close to the fire as he dared.

He borrowed the boy’s gloves and pulled them on over his own to create a protective second layer. Carefully, so as not to singe himself, he deposited a few of the larger stones ringing the firepit right into the hot coals at the base of the flames. Then, after checking that the boy hadn’t passed out entirely, he went to the mouth of the cave and whispered to the wind to blow gently and to make the waves calm. The wind was reluctant, but it obeyed with only a few moment’s sweet-talk.

By the time he’d finished the stones had warmed in the coals and he gingerly pulled them out, tucking them into the blankets cocooning the boy. Finally, he dug around in his pack for his most favorite item: his flask. The little mutt would owe him a mighty favor for this, he thought.

He knelt at the boy’s side and prodded him until his eyes opened. He was still shivering, but that was a good sign; if he were not shaking then he would truly be in danger.

“You must drink this,” he said. The boy blinked blearily at him, his mouth moving but no sound coming out. Not in the mood to wait, Joxaren pressed the mouth of the flask to his lips and tilted it back just enough so a trickle of the liquor flowed out.

As he predicted, the boy coughed and sputtered at the fiery taste.

“Never had White Lightning before, have you?” Joxaren said with a chuckle. “Drink a bit more, there’s a good lad.”

The boy grimaced with every sip but he did as he was told.

“What is _that_?” he asked in a shaky voice, after Joxaren determined he’d had enough.

“White Lightning,” he explained, taking a bracing pull off the flask and smacking his lips at the zingy, bitter-sweet flavor. “A potion I carry when I need a pick-me-up. Good for what ails you. Speaking of ailment, may I ask what in the name of heaven were you thinking? Holing up in a sea-cave during an ice storm is all well and good for _me_ , but you’re just a little thing. And why were you all wet?”

The boy’s cheeks colored. “I was foolish,” he admitted, burying his face in the blankets. “I took so long cooking my supper here that I didn’t realize the water had gotten so high. The storm surge came right in and soaked everything.”

“Foolish indeed,” Joxaren. “Mumriks should be more cautious in nasty weather like this, even vernal mongrels like yourself. That springy blood won’t save you from everything, you know.”

“You talk a lot of nonsense, you know?” the boy said moodily. “Aren’t you a Mumrik too?”

Joxaren snorted, “Child, if you only knew.”

“I’m not a _child_ ,” the boy said, baring his small white fangs at Joxaren. What a fierce little thing, how _precious_. Joxaren snickered at him.

“You certainly made a childish mistake, sheltering here and not thinking to mind to swell. I should find your pappa and give him a piece of my mind for not teaching you better.”

“My pappa was a great adventurer,” the boy snapped. “And if he was around, he’d, he’d—” he took a deep breath and let it out. He shut his eyes and seemed to make a conscious decision to calm himself. “I did make a childish mistake and it’s no one’s fault but my own. I should thank you for helping me.”

“Yes, you should,” Joxaren said, though he did feel a stab of guilt for riling the boy up so. He was already paying the price for his thoughtlessness with near freezing.

“Then I thank you, sir,” the boy said, giving Joxaren a nod and then sinking down into the blankets like a turtle, apparently brooding.

Joxaren scratched his neck fur idly. Perhaps he’d teased the boy enough.

“I accept your thanks, and in return I shall make us breakfast. What have you got?”

The boy cocked a brow at him. “Not much, the rest of my clams were washed out in the storm. I have some provisions in my pack, though. You can help yourself.”

“Good enough, I suppose,” he said. He dug through the boy’s pack again, pulling out waxed paper packets of jerky and dried fruit. He also found an envelope, which he assumed to be for tobacco, but it turned out to contain a letter, addressed ‘For Snufkin’. Joxaren traced the letters with a claw. He could tell it wasn’t the boy’s Mother Name, as it lacked a certain _resonance_. Still, it would do in a pinch.

“Are you Snufkin?” he asked, picking out a selection of dried apricots and fish and dividing it between the two of them.

“That’s what they call me,” the boy, _Snufkin_ , said. “How did you know?”

“The letter in your pack. Is it from your sweetheart?”

Snufkin’s cheeks flushed a spectacular pink and he pointedly ignored the question. _Definitely_ from his sweetheart, Joxaren thought with a smile.

“I suppose I should ask your name as well. I should know who to thank for saving me from freezing.”

“Oh, you can call me Lumi,” Joxaren said; he never gave his preferred name to strangers, and he never gave his Mother Name to _anyone_.

“Lumi,” Snufkin said quietly, as though committing it to memory. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that name before.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a name like Snufkin before,” Joxaren retorted. “What does it mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s simply what they called me when I was a young child. I think it was meant as an insult, but I reclaimed it for myself,” the boy said, chewing a bit of dried fish.

“A wise choice,” Joxaren said. “And unique, which I can appreciate. Most other vernal Fae call themselves such obvious things like _Moss_ or _Blossom_. It’s good to strive for individuality.”

The boy perked up. “You keep calling me that, what do you mean by it?”

“Calling you what?”

“Vernal, springy,” Snufkin said. “I’m a _Mumrik_ , I don’t know what a ‘vernal Fae’ is.”

Joxaren paused, searching the boy’s face. How very odd.

“Do you know,” he asked slowly, “What a Mumrik _is_?”

“It’s a…” Snufkin trailed off. “Well, it’s what I am. It’s what people have called me.”

Joxaren chuckled. “A Mumrik,” he explained, “Is a halfling child. Your mother was a mortal and your father was a Fae.”

Snufkin looked at him incredulously. “You’re pulling my leg, it’s not very nice.”

“Believe or don’t,” Joxaren said through a mouthful of apricots. “But it’s the truth. You said your father was an adventurer. Did your mother tell you that, or whoever raised you? A wanderer, living outside the bounds of mortal society? Sounds plenty Fae-like to me.” He licked his paws clean and lay back along the cold stone floor, closing his eyes and intending to nap for a bit.

“My father—” Snufkin sighed. “I don’t know much about him, to be honest, only what I’ve heard from Moominpappa…”

_Moominpappa?_

Joxaren’s eyes snapped open. Moominpappa? No, it couldn’t be his old friend. There were plenty of Moomins about.

“He likes to tell stories,” Snufkin continued, sounding a little dreamy, as though he were speaking more to himself that Joxaren. “He told us all about his adventures with the old Muddler and my father, but it might all be tall tales. The Joxter may have been a regular person for all I know.”

_The Joxter?_

Joxaren sucked in a breath and covered the resulting cough by reaching for his flask again. Once he’d taken a good long sip he sat up and looked hard at the boy.

“What was that name?” he asked, laboring to keep his voice low and casual.

“The Joxter,” Snufkin said, picking at a loose thread in the woolen blanket. “Strange name, just like mine. Moominpappa said we are quite alike in many ways, though I wouldn’t know.”

Joxaren’s mind spun. This boy would have no reason to know the nickname his old friend had given him, not unless…

“Tell me about this Moominpappa,” he said lightly, laying back down and folding his paws tight together. _It can’t be, it can’t be…._

“Oh, he’s a wonderful person and his son Moomintroll is my very dearest friend,” Snufkin said with a smile in his voice. “He lives in a valley up North with his family. He tells great stories about his exploits, though I think many of them are a bit silly and half made-up. He was the one who told me about my father and my mother.”

“… And what did he tell you about your mother?” Joxaren asked, heart hammering behind his ribs.

“The Mother Mymble,” Snufkin sighed, exasperated but with a seed of wistfulness. “Not exactly a huge surprise there, I think she must be the mother of half the countryside up in Moominvalley.”

“I’ve… heard of her,” Joxaren mumbled.

“ _Hmmph_ ,” Snufkin said. “I told you I always come South for the Winter? Well, in the Spring and Summer I go back to Moominvalley. It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen, it gets harder and harder to leave it every Fall.”

“But you must wander, mustn’t you?” Joxaren said quietly. “You can’t stand being in one place for the full turn of the seasons.”

“No, though sometimes I wish I could, even if just to make Moomintroll happy,” the boy said. Joxaren looked over at him. He was staring moodily into the flames, clearly thinking on this Moomintroll, Joxaren’s own old friend’s son, of all people.

Old Moomin had a _son_. He’d settled down and had a family, something Joxaren had never wished to do, and yet, _and yet_ …

He studied the boy’s profile in the firelight. Now that he really thought about it, his reddish hair was just the same as Mother Mymble’s, as was the color of his eyes and the flash of freckles across his nose. That was Joxaren’s nose, if a bit smaller and narrower. The shape of the eyes was his as well, and the strange scent of Fae magic lingering around the boy… but he was so clearly of the Spring, while Joxaren was a son of Winter… well, it _did_ happen sometimes. Mixing mortal and Fae blood had all sorts of bizarre effects.

And beyond their resemblance, what were the odds that this wandering child would know old Moomin? Would know the name Joxter? Only Moomin and the rest of their little gang called him that, and only Moomin knew of his affair with Mother Mymble. He was a clever troll, he would take one look at this boy, do the math and…

Joxaren looked on his _son_ with wide eyes. Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear. How in the name of all the ice on the earth did this happen? How had he _let_ this happen?

He cleared his throat, making Snufkin turn and look at him.

“Are you alright, Lumi?”

Joxaren gave himself a short shake. “Oh, I’m fine. Just thinking about your Moominvalley. Perhaps I should visit it myself.”

“You should,” Snufkin agreed. “It’s especially lovely in the Spring.”

The boy _would_ think that, it was probably his own latent magic that made the place as beautiful as he claimed.

They sat in silence for a while, Joxaren feeding the fire and examining the boy as closely as he could without being too obvious. His strength was returning quickly and he shed Joxaren’s jacket and quilt after an hour or so. He kept his woolen blanket wrapped around himself as he lay his clothes out to dry by the fire, then retrieved a long bone needle and cotton thread from his pack and offered to mend Joxaren’s quilt for him.

They stayed in the cave for hours, speaking about Moominpappa and some of the interesting people they’d met on their journeys. Joxaren was only just present for most of the talk, his mind still whirling like a hurricane. That was his _son_ , mending his old quilt. His _son_ was telling him about a strange wild marmot and how he’d given it a name. His _son_ was redressing and telling him it was time he left, while the tide was out and the skies were clear.

“Yes, I suppose you’d better be on your way,” Joxaren agreed, looking the boy over one more time, memorizing his face.

“Will you be staying here?” Snufkin asked.

“Yes, for a while,” Joxaren said, cracking a grin. “Not all of us have young joints to go running around on, after all.”

Snufkin grinned back. “Well, thank you again, Lumi. I don’t know if I would have made it without you, even if you are full of nonsense.”

“I’ll meet you in Moominvalley in the Spring,” Joxaren said, holding a paw out to shake. He had the sudden powerful urge to draw the boy to him, to grab him around the shoulders and refuse to let go, all twisted up with the simultaneous desire to run, _run_ for the hills and scream at the sky _how did I let this happen?_

 “I hope to see you there,” Snufkin smiled, and began his descent out of the cave. Joxaren watched him go, terror in his heart that the boy would fall, terror at what he himself might do if he did. But Snufkin was strong, even after a bout of near freezing. The Fae blood in him would protect him. _Joxaren’s_ blood would protect him.

When he was halfway up the beach, the fading figure of the boy turned and waved back. Joxaren could ever so faintly hear him call _‘Goodbye, Lumi!’_.

Joxaren waved back. “Goodbye, little Mumrik,” he murmured to himself.

He waited and waited, watching the green slip of a figure disappear into the distance.

“Goodbye, my son. I’ll see you in the Spring.”

 


End file.
